nothing, then slid the poster toward her. "Is Denise really your name?"
She gave a slow nod of her head. Her hair was flattened and greasy in places, as if it hadn't been washed for several days. There was a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, a small scrape on her right. The shirt she wore looked to be about two sizes too big.
I leaned forward. "Are you okay?"
She looked down at her feet and gave a small shrug.
"Denise?"
She looked up as if she'd just been caught stealing something.
I tapped the poster lying between us. "Listen, I don't want this to sound mean or anything like that, okay, but… is this some kind of a joke?"
She shook her head as her eyes began tearing, then reached up and wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and it was this last thing, this simple, reflex, child-like action, even more than her tears, dirty hair, and smudged face, that told me in no uncertain terms she was scared half to death, because the way her too-thin arm shuddered as she lifted her bruised hand to her runny nose, the way she didn't even care about the streak of snot she left behind, the way her bony shoulders began hitching as sobs spluttered out before she could stop them, all of it made a fist that slammed into my gut and finally sent the message to my brain that this little girl with the big eyes and killer smile was terrified and hungry and hurt and sick and you-bet-your-ass for real .
Shit, shit, shit.
The waitress came back a few moments later and set a tall, frosty glass of orange juice in front of Denise, noticed she was crying, and said, "Aw, honey, what's wrong?"
I looked at Denise, then at the waitress who was looking right at her. I took one second to note that, although the poster with Denise's face on it was laying face-up in plain view, the waitress took no notice.
"Miss?"
The waitress turned toward me. "Is she feeling all right? We got some children's aspirin back there that I could—"
"—would you ask Muriel to come over here, please?"
"Is there something wrong with your order, sir?"
"Not at all, it looks great, but I'd appreciate it if you'd ask her to come over here right now. It's kind of urgent."
The waitress nodded her head and left.
I reached across the table and took hold of Denise's hand; she jumped at my touch, frightened—no, scratch that— terrified , but did not try to pull away.
"Denise, the person who's driving that bus I saw you in… are they the person who took you from here?"
She shook her head, dribbling snot and tears onto her shirt.
"The person who took you, are they here anywhere?"
She looked up at me, then squeezed my hand and said: "…I'm real sorry, mister. Honest I am." Her voice broke hard on those last three words.
"Sorry? For what, hon?"
Before she could answer, Muriel came up to the booth. "Jenny said you wanted to see—"
The words died in her throat when she saw Denise. "Oh, Lord …"
I held up the poster. Muriel waved it away. "I don't need to look at that, Mark. I know who she is, all right. I been seeing her face in my dreams for a long time now." She looked at me with tears in her eyes. "It was my restaurant that she disappeared from. Why wouldn't I remember what she looked like?" She knelt down and took hold of Denise's hand. "Oh, hon, a lot of folks been looking everywhere for you, you know that?"
"Will you call my mommy and daddy?"
She brushed some hair from Denise's eyes. "Oh, you bet I will, hon, I'll go start making calls right now." She turned to me and took hold of my hand. "You done a real wonderful thing, finding her like this."
"Actually, she found me ."
"What's that?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. What do we do—"
"Everything okay here, Muriel?" He was neither overweight nor balding; this security guard looked to be in his early thirties with maybe five-percent body fat: he could've probably broken my spine with two fingers.
"Trevor," said
She gave a slow nod of her head. Her hair was flattened and greasy in places, as if it hadn't been washed for several days. There was a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, a small scrape on her right. The shirt she wore looked to be about two sizes too big.
I leaned forward. "Are you okay?"
She looked down at her feet and gave a small shrug.
"Denise?"
She looked up as if she'd just been caught stealing something.
I tapped the poster lying between us. "Listen, I don't want this to sound mean or anything like that, okay, but… is this some kind of a joke?"
She shook her head as her eyes began tearing, then reached up and wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and it was this last thing, this simple, reflex, child-like action, even more than her tears, dirty hair, and smudged face, that told me in no uncertain terms she was scared half to death, because the way her too-thin arm shuddered as she lifted her bruised hand to her runny nose, the way she didn't even care about the streak of snot she left behind, the way her bony shoulders began hitching as sobs spluttered out before she could stop them, all of it made a fist that slammed into my gut and finally sent the message to my brain that this little girl with the big eyes and killer smile was terrified and hungry and hurt and sick and you-bet-your-ass for real .
Shit, shit, shit.
The waitress came back a few moments later and set a tall, frosty glass of orange juice in front of Denise, noticed she was crying, and said, "Aw, honey, what's wrong?"
I looked at Denise, then at the waitress who was looking right at her. I took one second to note that, although the poster with Denise's face on it was laying face-up in plain view, the waitress took no notice.
"Miss?"
The waitress turned toward me. "Is she feeling all right? We got some children's aspirin back there that I could—"
"—would you ask Muriel to come over here, please?"
"Is there something wrong with your order, sir?"
"Not at all, it looks great, but I'd appreciate it if you'd ask her to come over here right now. It's kind of urgent."
The waitress nodded her head and left.
I reached across the table and took hold of Denise's hand; she jumped at my touch, frightened—no, scratch that— terrified , but did not try to pull away.
"Denise, the person who's driving that bus I saw you in… are they the person who took you from here?"
She shook her head, dribbling snot and tears onto her shirt.
"The person who took you, are they here anywhere?"
She looked up at me, then squeezed my hand and said: "…I'm real sorry, mister. Honest I am." Her voice broke hard on those last three words.
"Sorry? For what, hon?"
Before she could answer, Muriel came up to the booth. "Jenny said you wanted to see—"
The words died in her throat when she saw Denise. "Oh, Lord …"
I held up the poster. Muriel waved it away. "I don't need to look at that, Mark. I know who she is, all right. I been seeing her face in my dreams for a long time now." She looked at me with tears in her eyes. "It was my restaurant that she disappeared from. Why wouldn't I remember what she looked like?" She knelt down and took hold of Denise's hand. "Oh, hon, a lot of folks been looking everywhere for you, you know that?"
"Will you call my mommy and daddy?"
She brushed some hair from Denise's eyes. "Oh, you bet I will, hon, I'll go start making calls right now." She turned to me and took hold of my hand. "You done a real wonderful thing, finding her like this."
"Actually, she found me ."
"What's that?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. What do we do—"
"Everything okay here, Muriel?" He was neither overweight nor balding; this security guard looked to be in his early thirties with maybe five-percent body fat: he could've probably broken my spine with two fingers.
"Trevor," said
Similar Books
Azure (The Silver Series Book 5)
Cheree Alsop
The Oldest Flame
Elisabeth Grace Foley
Four Things My Geeky-Jock-of-a-Best-Friend Must Do in Europe
Jane Harrington
Random Acts of Sorcery
Karen Mead
Cherish the Land
Ariel Tachna
The Wishbones
Tom Perrotta
The Rose Café
John Hanson Mitchell
The Emerald Virus
Patrick Shea
One Night Stand
Clara Bayard